


A Tall Order

by swat117, this_is_not_nothing



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 5+1 Things, Backstory, M/M, Patrick makes it better at the end, by coffee we mean a caramel macchiato skim two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder, david is disappointed by life and coffee, pre-sc david, until he's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/pseuds/swat117, https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing
Summary: Five times David's coffee is made wrong and one time Patrick brings him the perfect cup.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 25
Kudos: 178





	A Tall Order

**Author's Note:**

> this_is_not_nothing had this idea, slid into my (swat117's) DMs and 24 hours later here we are.  
> That should pretty much explain it!

“Daveed,” chants the benumbed barista. “Caramel macchiato for Daveed.”

Jesus Christ.

As if the Astor Place Starbucks wasn’t tragic enough—seriously, how long can they renovate one 800 sq. ft. coffee shop?—five giggling Tisch acting majors turn their heads and gape on hearing the name. They sigh in disappointment when they see it’s not in fact the Daveed of the moment and turn back to scrolling on their phones. It seems nothing is safe from _Hamilton_ mania—not even his precious coffee order. Anyway, it’s Wednesday afternoon. Don’t they know he has a matinée? And they call themselves thespians.

“Mmm, thanks.” David swipes the cup from the counter and generously does not correct the misspelling of his name. D-a-v-e-e-d. God. If they really wanted to pronounce it that way, they could have at least spelled it D-a-v-í-d.

“Good luck winning the lotto,” he scathes at the baby hipsters and hip checks the door open to the sweltering July heat. “I saw it twice at the Public.”

As he reaches the crosswalk and waits for the light, he thumbs the wrapper off the straw and winces at the slide in sound of plastic on plastic. He’s heading east for a studio visit, and running a few minutes late, but no one would want to meet with him if he hasn’t had his coffee so he’s doing them a service, really.

He takes the first cool sip and his mouth floods with aspartame. Fuck.

As he power-walks down Bowery, he chokes down the iced _skinny_ caramel macchiato.

It won’t be the last thing he compromises on that day.

☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️

He’s literally paying her not to mess this up. That's what really grinds his gears.

She’s not some set intern he’d just met that day. She’s not his dad’s well-intentioned PA who always forgets the sweetener but brings him a bear-claw to make up for it. She’s not a shop girl at the Prada with a crappy Nespresso machine. (And actually he takes that last one back, Justina even makes that work. She’s just that good.)

No. She’s _his_ freaking assistant.

At thirty (late twenties if anyone’s asking), David really only wants two things in life: 1. To never run out of his prescription clonazepam. 2. Cocoa powder! On top! Of his coffee!

And now, it was the third time in as many days that Ellie had forgotten the sacred sprinkle. She just keeps. Fucking. It. Up.

He texts his sister:  
_Is there NO ONE worth hiring in ALL of ny  
What is so hard about a macchiato ????  
Does she even know what working for Madonna is like  
I am a saint  
A SAINT_

The reply:  
_u know whats at stake david, ur call  
#thebet #veganbrats #27daysleft_

What was with the hashtags? Did she think even her texts could start trending? And obviously yes, he did know what was at stake—literal steaks—which was why he was _texting_ Alexis and not _firing_ his assistant. But speaking of hashtags, the last thing he needed was another photo of him going viral with the caption #MirandaPreistly.

He types out:  
_I’ve never liked you,_ but doesn’t hit send.

#27daysleft indeed. He could sprinkle his own cocoa powder. He would show Alexis that he could keep an assistant for longer than one month. He would win this bet.

He would maintain creative control over the Annual Memorial Day Cookout menu.

☕️☕️☕️☕️

David wakes around nine, and not in his own bed. It had been a late night; this was a post-party crash. His head throbs and his mouth is dry and bitter. He’s at Sebastien’s.

The other side of the bed is empty. Not unexpected, not even unwelcome, but questions still fizz at the edge of David’s mind. Should he get dressed and go? Can he fall back to sleep?

His stomach rumbles. He wants a deli bacon, egg, and cheese. A Regency Cafe full English. A Maison Pichard croissant. A veritable gallon of coffee. He needs provisions, so he slides off the bed, slides on his briefs, and wanders out into the loft.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Sebastien’s low voice calls from across the room. He’s reading the actual paper at a stool pulled up to his woodblock kitchen island.

David pulls at the hem of his undershirt, longs for the comforting sleeve-ends of his sweater, now piled carelessly on the floor by the couch. God, he really must have been out of it. “Yeah, morning, sorry if I over—“

“It’s all good. We had a long, tiring night.” If leering was a tone of voice, this would be it.

“Mmm, yeah.” He leans in to kiss Sebastien and gets stubbled cheek instead of lips.

“Why don’t you go brush your teeth,” Sebastien says, patting David on the shoulder. “I’ll put the pot on.”

Despite being paired with the backhanded comment about his morning breath, half of those words were music to David’s ear. This was more than he was used to. The morning after at Sebastien Raine’s usually involved a retreat to the fire escape, not an invitation to laze about.

A steaming mug—earthy, handmade, overpriced—waits for him when he gets back from the bathroom. He’s hungover, desperate, and so he takes a sip without even looking down. He nearly spits it right back into the cup.

Not coffee, tea. And not just any tea, but a heavy, herbaceous, pungent blend. Blend might be too generous a word as nothing about this flavor was cohesive.

“Do you like it? It’s a recipe from my guru.” Sebastien crowds him up against the fridge. David weighs the quality of the sex against the taste of the brown liquid.

“Well,” Sebastien adds. “Are you going to thank me for taking care of you this morning?"

Ah. Sure. That makes much more sense.

Ten minutes later, when David goes to wash a different taste out of his mouth, the closest thing is the forgotten mug. The tea's gone cold, not that it makes a difference.

☕️☕️☕️

The maître d’ walks David to his mother’s table and he plays along like he doesn’t know where it is—right underneath the caricature of Ruth Warrick, obviously. _Keep your enemies closer,_ she’d first explained when he was like, eleven. The logic didn’t quite make sense anymore, as Ruth had died in 2005, but he wasn’t going to bring it up today. Some conversations were not meant for public spaces.

Sardi’s was not the haunt it used to be, though perhaps that’s why his mother liked it here. They seemed to be stuck in the ’80s when it came to food and decor, and who they treated as an A-lister.

As he sits down, a waiter rushes over with two identical, porcelain coffee cups.

Huh. He hadn’t ordered anything for himself—so does this mean?

“I took it upon myself to anticipate your arrival,” his mother says, stirring her half of the pair. “No need to congratulate yourself.”

“Uh, thanks?” he says. The beverage looks... safe enough? But the vessel is not see-through, so who knows what hidden wonders wait beneath its foamy surface.

Just as David is about to take a cautious sip, Alexis saunters up to their table.

“Um, _hi?_ ” she greets.

“Alexis,” his mother drawls. “What a fortuitous coincidence! Do you dine here often?”

“Ew, no. Obviously not.” She picks up a maroon cloth napkin like it’s pre-owned, two-seasons-old cruise collection. “I was, like, asked to be here?”

“And are you going to introduce us to your companion?”

“Um, _you_ asked me?”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like something I would do,” his mother replies. David has to agree. “But now that you’re here...”—she waves a hand to summon another place setting—“this isn’t a concilliabule. Sit, sit.”

Alexis flops down into the newly appeared chair with a huff and a glance in David’s direction.

Over the rim of his cup he raises an eyebrow back. There’s nothing he can say that Alexis hasn’t heard before. He’s actually surprised she even showed up in the first place. He takes a sip to fill the awkward silence.

It’s undrinkable, unsurprisingly so.

☕️☕️

“Can I get you anything?” the bubbly waitress bounds up to his booth and asks.

The sweet relief of death. A time machine. A retroactive business degree. David only wants unattainable things these days.

“Coffee?” he lamely requests. That must be possible, right?

“Sure! How do you take it?”

“Caramel macchiato, skim, two sweeteners, and a sprinkle of cocoa powder.” He lists the order off like it’s his birthday or social. He couldn’t forget it if he tried.

“Well...” The waitress—Twyla, he reads off the plastic name tag—taps her pencil on her order pad. “I have drip coffee and a few Torini flavor syrups. I think there might be some Coffee-mate Caramel Creamer in the back of the fridge. That stuff doesn’t go bad, right?”

“Literally _how_ would I know,” he replies and pinches the bridge of his nose. His brewing caffeine headache is setting in strong. “So I don’t suppose you have an espresso machine then?”

“That’s a no,” she says through a sympathetic smile. He’s been waiting to be laughed out of town. As bizarre as he finds all his new neighbors, he can’t begin to predict what unkind words they have to say about his brand of coastal elitism sweeping through town. Even if that was a label he’d otherwise wear proudly, he’s always been able to tell where he wasn’t wanted. For example—

“But,” Twyla continues, jolting David out of his thought spiral. “Since you’re going to be around for a while, maybe we can have a bake sale? Or start a little fund next to the tip jar? I’m sure the town would pull together if it’s something that would make you happy.”

Had he stepped into a Sesame Street episode on empathy? What the fuck was wrong with this town?

He smiles tight and closed-lipped.

“Just some water, I guess. No ice.” He read in GQ or something about how water helps with headaches too. Maybe? Does that sound right? Apparently he’d left his recall back in the mansion with the rest of his stuff.

“Okay! Coming right up!” She bounds back to where she came from.

When the water arrives, it comes with a small bowl of clear-wrapped, golden brown toffees.

“I love caramel too,” Twyla says as she sets the dishes down. “Reminds me of the summer I spent in Niagara Falls officiating weddings to earn enough money to pay for my mom's cat's glaucoma treatments.” She spins on her heels and goes to greet another customer.

He unwraps the candy like he’s inspecting an authentic Fabergé egg. Like if he messes it up he’ll be on the hook for his whole fortune for the second time this week.

Now caramel is going to remind him of this moment, this place. A sweet reprieve in the middle of the worst day of his life.

☕️

His mother trails out of their store, stolen merchandise tucked safely away in her bag, tea and scone abandoned on the table next to the moisturizer.

Silence fills the room as the over-door bell resonance dies down. David blinks at Patrick who looks back at him with a tight, questioning gaze. David blinks again. Blinks. Maybe if he blinks one more time something new will be waiting when his eyes open. Something with fewer expectations.

David doesn't even know where to start, how to explain his mother to someone like Patrick. Someone who grew up in a home that didn’t require an appointment to eat breakfast together. Someone who bonded over making cookies rather than lacing wigs. David hasn’t let his parents meet a love interest since... the couple he used to come out to them in college with? Or, well, Sebastien. But that was only on a technicality.

“Thanks,” David breathes, curling lips inward and reaching for his own cardboard-sleeved cup. He takes a sip and can’t help the soft _mmm_ that escapes after.

Light, frothy milk. Nutty espresso. Notes of butter and brown sugar. Cocoa powder that lingers on his tongue as he swallows.

“It’s perfect,” David says, and is shocked to find he means it. Come to think of it, he can’t actually remember the last time his coffee order was incorrect. Little successes like this have been sneaking up on him a lot lately. Maybe that’s what happens when you stop keeping a list of everything that could go wrong.

Patrick’s lips tilt up to the left. “I know,” he says, and disappears into the back room.

As David takes another sip, he feels the liquid warm down the line of his front body. It's a new feeling for him, being known. He finishes the coffee, but the warmth remains.


End file.
